


Token of the Packmaster

by lirulin



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Considerable gratuitous swearing, F/M, Gen, Spoilers for the end of Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirulin/pseuds/lirulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas and the Inquisitor are badly injured and separated from their companions on a mission. Solas tries to protect the injured inquisitor while their companions struggle to locate and rescue them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Emerald Graves

**Author's Note:**

> Done for a fill on the Kinkmeme and, as I always seem to manage, completely lacking in kink (at the moment). Unfortunately the prompt contains a pretty huge spoiler, so if you haven't beaten the game, this is your last chance to turn away.
> 
> No? Well okie dokey.
> 
> "Solas has restrained himself from acting on his attraction to Trevalyen for a whole variety of reasons, but the Dread Wolf isn't just a name. With his own injuries (potentially a blow to the head) and the person he cares for being hurt, he goes into full-on wolven instinct mode. "

Evelyn Trevelyan was young.

Her face was round, with rosy cheeks and glittering eyes. Her stride ate ground as though she could walk the world before she wearied. Her sword moved with the practiced grace that came with years of tutelage, but none of the ferocity required of real combat. Her smiles came as easily as her tears, her sympathies ran as deeply as her joy, and all of them as obvious as the sun on her face; even by human count, she was barely more than a child. 

He'd mistaken her for naive, once, as Cassandra led her through the snow and she fought against the first opponents who would offer her no quarter. Were it not for the Seeker, and for Varric's quick shots, she'd have been mangled by demons on that mountaintop. She was threadbare, then, panic lacing her words, incredulity and disbelief in her motions, in her eyes, and he'd lamented the cruel jest of fate that pushed her upon them. That _this girl_ , barely old enough to call herself grown, she was the one who held the key to his salvation, to recovering what he'd been fool enough to lose. _She_ was his hope against the creature and the fate of this world, of the fade beyond the veil, all rested in the magic bonded with her palm. 

He had been so certain she would fall. How could she not?

But, as he watched her cast down her sword, without hesitation, without fear, and throw her hand to the sky, he began to realize his error. There was no elegance in how she handled the veil, she was no mage, but still it bent to her. She poured herself into the mark without reservation and closed the jagged rift without his aid. When she fell, that sense of inevitability that lingered over him reversed. He watched her collapse, watched Cassandra drop to her side, and knew, for certain, that she would rise again.

When she did, they named her herald to their prophet, and the openness he'd seen as she scaled the mountain, as she panicked and was called prisoner, was gone. She shuttered herself poorly, her emotions led her heart, led her mind and her blade, but fear was never again among the expressions across her face, nor in her eyes. It was curious, to meet someone who could banish doubt and fear so well, and he watched her all the more carefully for it.

Evelyn Trevelyan was young, but she was not a fool.

He'd been shocked to find no guile behind her eyes, to hear her ask questions of him, an elven apostate, merely to know his answers. Her interest was sincere and she took every word he spoke as the gospel truth. He'd almost felt guilt, as her questions plumbed his knowledge and he provided her with answers that brushed the border of lies. Her eyes lit as he spoke of the fade, of magic and spirits, and despite himself he was charmed by this shemlen girl. 

He was not alone in this, of course. Somehow, the Herald of Andraste, charmed all those she met. Varric jested with her and, in a startlingly short time, deemed her a confidant. Cassandra took to her defense, her approval nearly tangible as the Herald strove to do what was Right. He was forced to elaborate upon himself in ways he'd not imagined he would require, spinning a fantasy from the barest of facts, and he did so without hesitation just to see her awe and hear the wonder in her voice. When he expressed concern about being surrounded by potential enemies, an elven apostate alone amid the Chantry's finest, her sudden ferocity had startled him into silence.

' _I'll do whatever I have to._ '

To protect him, for his help, or simply because it was Right, she'd all but promised to turn swords on her peoples' church, on the God whose prophet she upheld. It was baffling, and flattering, and over time he came to realize it had not been an exaggeration. From the very moment they'd been introduced, when he'd given her the name Solas and smiled politely at the child who mocked the foundations of his power, she had been ready to die for him, for any of them. That depth of devotion, of altruism, was terrifying...but not nearly so much as realizing its mirror lived in him.

Solas watched her in the dappled light of the Emerald Graves, a land so deeply Elven that none dare deny it, but that meant nothing to him. It was a young place and, in this young world, she moved seamlessly. They called her Inquisitor, now, which was a pity. Like this, with the sun on her face, clad in glimmering silverite, sword aloft, he saw the appeal of Herald.

" _Eat it! Ate it--_ "

Sera's victorious crowing pulled him out of his reverie with all the force and elegance of a kick to the lower back. His staff sang and frost gripped the Freemen scrambling down the ridge. The ice spun at his command and chased at the Inquisitor's heels, but never overtook her as she charged. Her shield crashed against the Chevalier above and the force of it knocked his feet from beneath him. He slid toward them, scrabbling to regain his footing, but it was for naught as a winding cloud of twisting purple and black engulfed him. His screams and the threat of the Inquisitor's blade sent the remaining archers fleeing. They scattered into the woods and Evelyn lingered in the light before sheathing her sword.

"Is that it?" Dorian asked, a pout on his face and in his tone, "Pity, I was just starting to have fun."

"We're not done yet," Evelyn said and stood tall as she peered through the towering trees. "We have to locate the smugglers."

"And the Veridium Mine, yeah?" 

Sera disrupted the scene as she moved, heavy footfalls crunching against the frozen gravel, to stand with Evelyn. There was no sense in lingering, or staring at Sera, so Solas moved to join them atop the ridge. Dorian followed at his heels.

"No," Evelyn answered with a quick shake of her head. There was no condemnation in her voice, and no elaboration was forthcoming. Solas saw no reason to question her, her judgment had never been unsound, but the others were not so considerate.

"Awww," Sera all but whined and leaned against the Inquisitor's back. The elf was just tall enough to pitch the human forward, slightly, but the Inquisitor was not nearly as delicate as she appeared. That Evelyn moved at all was testament to her humor and grace, and the smile she leveled over her shoulder was long-suffering. "But these guys are _**easy**_ \--all standing 'round with their cocks in their hands and thumbs up their arses--we can take 'em."

"What a delightful scene, so colorfully painted, why I can picture it now--" Dorian sounded more than amused by Sera's antics and while the archer rarely found any mage tolerable, in this situation, the two would be insufferable within minutes. Before Dorian's "wit" could exert itself, or encourage any further complaints, Solas interjected.

"It is possible that a mine would be better fortified than roving bands of thugs set on haphazard patrols, is it not?" Solas's tone was perfectly even, conversational, and Evelyn's eyes shifted to him. Though her smile lingered, some small twitch changed her expression to approval. It was almost offensive that her approval lifted his spirit, but it did. "Even...engaged as you suggested, Sera, I suspect it is a task best suited for more than one warrior at the fore."

" _Warrior at the fore_ \--" Sera repeated snidely, her nose scrunched up and her hand miming alongside her. She huffed, leaned more heavily on the Inquisitor, and then, with a truly exasperated groan, drew herself upright. "Ugh, fine, whatever--ruin all the fun."

"Come on," Evelyn said and adjusted her shield against her arm. "We brought Cassandra and Blackwall, it's no fair if we just leave them waiting at the camp forever." Sera let out a disgruntled noise, but still followed along as Evelyn continued down the road. "Alright, what if I promise you can come with? Sound good?"

The idea of the Inquisitor going to battle without a mage pulled a frown across Solas's face. He trusted Cassandra, the Seeker was more than devoted to the Inquisitor, but Sera and Blackwall were not acceptable substitutes. He disliked the idea of her being outside of his range, unguarded by his barriers. Unfortunately, there was no way to phrase that concern that wouldn't sound as petty as his reasoning. He settled into silence as they ascended through the trees and his mind wandered. His eyes idly chased the shapes of august ram and nugs as they dove through the brush, he watched the wind whip through the leaves, and gradually he began to understand the appeal of this place. The conversation continued without him, drifting from topic to topic, and he mostly ignored it.

" **SO** \-- _las_ , Mr. High-an-Elfy," Sera snapped, and once again pulled him from more serene thoughts. "With us now or didja' get your head stuffed up your Fade again, eh?"

"Ah, Sera, your wit and charm never cease to astound," Solas replied and Sera glowered at him.

"Yeah, yeah, so make with the story, then," Sera demanded and Solas was at a loss.

They'd traveled far, the sun had been overhead, the sunlight clear and bright, when they fought the last band of Freemen. Now the shadows of the great trees cast patchwork darkness across the rocks and grass, the highest leaves were yellow and gold, the bare branches lit orange against the sky. It would be night soon, but they were too far to return to the main camp. It was no matter, while the thought was grim, and somewhat ironic, the Graves were peaceful enough.

"I'm sorry, I must have missed the question," Solas responded crisply and returned his attention to the city elf. Ahead of them the Inquisitor climbed a steep hill, her boots finding easy purchase on the remnants of a forgotten road. "To what story are you referring?"

"The one about the dog piss necklace." Sera leveled an impatient stare at him and Solas simply stared back, blank and confused. He must have stopped walking at some point because Dorian passed him and, as he did, the Tevinter gave him a bemused clap on the shoulder.

"I beg your pardon?" Solas asked, aghast, and followed after Dorian. Sera rolled her eyes and jerked her thumb at Evelyn. The Inquisitor had passed out of his line of sight but, as he followed the others up the hill, he realized why. There was a stream, silver and glittering, that cut the path before them. Blood lotus sprung from the silt in patches and, whether because she enjoyed it or she was extremely prudent, Evelyn never refrained from picking the flowers they passed.

"The. Dog. Piss. Necklace." The impatient repetition did not jog his memory, but it did get a laugh out of the Inquisitor.

"She means the token I wear," Evelyn clarified and shook her head. When she rose, she had a shield full of blood lotus blooms and a smile on her face. "It's going to be nightfall soon, we should camp here. Tomorrow we'll try to find somewhere more permanent and return to the forward."

"Babbling brooks, birds chirping, lush meadows and venison for dinner? Why how positively romantic. Shame we don't have any wine." Dorian exclaimed to everyone and no-one at once and moved toward the mammoth trees to retrieve firewood.

"Yeah, the token thingy," Sera agreed as she unslung her bow and unhooked her quiver. "So you gonna spill or what, I wasn't exactly frolicking 'round with you lot when her Inquisitorialness decided Eau-du-Dog-Bollocks was the scent she really wanted to go with."

Solas stared at Sera, torn between the desire to snap at her and the implication that she'd been instructed to ask _him_ about the item. His gaze drifted to Evelyn, who had set out her pack and was folding the harvested herbs to store. Her sword remained at her hip, but her shield was propped against a rock by the waterside. She completed her task quickly and glanced up at him as she tucked it away. She would doubtless build a pit for the fire, next, as she did whenever they made camp. He asked for no explanation, but she gave one, anyway, as she retrieved her shield so she could dig a space for wood and kindling, sheltered from the wind.

"I'm sorry," she prefaced and he had no doubt that the apology was sincere, "I'll tell it if you don't want to, but I can't... _explain_ it as well as you do."

The compliment, however inconsequential, drew his irritation from him and Solas merely inclined his head.

"It's quite alright," Solas assured her and then turned his attention back to Sera. She had her bow drawn, an arrow nocked, and a second between her teeth as she sighted. She seemed quite unbothered by their conversation as she focused off in the distance. "It is called the Token of the Packmaster," Solas informed her and his only response was a muffled _'uh-huh'_ before Sera let an arrow fly and, in the blink of an eye, nocked and loosed the second. In the distance he heard the shrill cry of a felled ram.

"Well, come on," she said impatiently and dropped her bow. When she started out toward the ram, Solas reluctantly followed. "Keep talkin', I'm curious and beastie isn't gonna gut itself."

"The amulet was a gift, of sorts, granted when the Inquisitor slew a demon in the Hinterlands," Solas continued politely as Sera skipped down the uneven hillside. She groped at something beneath her shirt, near her thigh, and Solas starred in mild, muted horror until she withdrew a dagger. 

"So what?" Sera's question was punctuated by the sound of a rough kick to a very dead ram. She flipped it over, belly up, and drove the knife into it as she continued. "Quizzy kills lots of demons, yeah. What's that got to do with wearing a pissed on necklace everyplace?"

"Excuse me?" 

Sera dragged the wickedly sharp dagger across the ram's belly and let out a loud, heavy huff of a sigh as she gutted it. She paused briefly, elbow deep in ichor, to stare impatiently at him. It was similar to the looks she normally leveled at him, but filled with considerably more reproach than he expected. Indeed, he had no idea she could _be_ reproachful, it seemed beyond her.

"I ain't thick, you know," Sera snapped. She might not have used knives in combat, but she was deft enough with a dagger that she didn't need to watch as she trimmed the innards from what would doubtless be their dinner. The sight was an unpleasant reminder that even the most crass and infantile of the Inquisitor's associates was dangerously shrewd and deadly. "Look, you don't want to get all poetic and junk, fine, always knew you was a bit of an arsehole. No surprises there, right? But I ask a question and get sent to you for answers, least you can do is give 'em without being a total twat about it."

Solas regarded Sera for a long moment and she, stubborn as he was, simply glowered back. 

"Very well," he ceded and she rolled her eyes as she turned back to her work. "Beyond the Crossroads, west of Redcliffe, there is a grouping of farmhouses. We came upon it in search of Horsemaster Dennet and found it besieged by wolves of unnatural strength and ferocity. In order to help the farmers, the Inquisitor decided to deal with the wolves."

"So, wolf demon or what?" Sera prompted, hilt of her dagger clutched between her teeth as she withdrew cord from somewhere on her person and bound the legs of the ram together. The question was vague and topical, he ignored it.

"When we located the hollow that the wolves called home, we discovered that they were being manipulated by a demon. It was not a battle of note, particularly when held against the plethora of demons the Inquisitor had already slain, but the wolves complicated matters."

"Yeah, I bet," Sera agreed and wiped her blade on the grass then, again, on the edge of her frayed jerkin as she stood. "Pack of wolves and a demon at the same time can really get a body covered in gross."

"On the contrary," Solas corrected her as she hefted the ram over her shoulder. "The Inquisitor was determined not the slay the wolves. She slaughtered the demon alone and, for her great effort, was gifted that amulet."

"They box it up with a bow for her?" Sera was making fun of him, but she was invested in the story. They started back; the sun had already crept below the horizon. 

"The amulet is unique in all of Thedas," Solas continued, as though she hadn't interrupted. "The one who wears it is marked by the gratitude of the black wolves."

"Quizzy's got wolfy superpowers then? Change at the moon? Talk to dogs, maybe? Can't be smell or she'd have ditched the thing in a lake ages ago."

"Tell me, Sera, have you ever been attacked by a wolf?" Solas questioned, his tone bland, as they approached the makeshift camp.

"Uh, from the city yanno, not a lot of wolves runnin' round there," Sera sniped back at him. "So: no."

"Not even in the forests, wandering through the trees for weeks on end with the Inquisitor?"

"...No." Sera's hesitance brought a smile to his face. He relished her confusion when he finished the story, cryptic as he was wont.

"Have you ever wondered why?"


	2. Venison and Firelight

Evelyn watched as Sera bounded into the trees to retrieve their dinner. She'd been very vocal on the matter of food and, once Evelyn had told her she knew how to roast venison, she'd fixated on it until Evelyn had distracted her with something else. Unfortunately, that something had been the necklace she wore atop her armor. For all she could tell Sera about where she found it, explaining what it did or why was beyond her. She felt a pang of sympathy for Solas, he'd clearly been deep in thought when Sera dragged him into the conversation and, now, she'd sent him off with the archer as she located her kill.

"Oh, don't you turn pensive on me as well." Dorian's voice was just loud enough to be risky, or it would have been, had there been anyone in sight for the last few hours. As it was, apart from a few nugs and the trees, Evelyn doubted there was anyone to hear them.

"What can I say? Must be infectious," Evelyn joked and smiled at him as he dropped a stack of singed branches alongside the pit she'd constructed. She started stacking them, almost immediately, and Dorian dropped himself down on the grass as though awaiting the fire.

"If that's the case, try not to breathe on me," he replied and propped his staff against his knee and shoulder. 

Pleasant silence reigned as Evelyn stacked the wood. Someone would need to fetch more before the night was out, but there was hardly a lack of it, here. Once she had finished, she drew back onto her haunches and reached for her tinderbox. Dorian beat her to it, and a flick of the end of his staff sent a rush of sparks and heat into the pit. The flame wasn't dramatic, but it caught easily and the fire came alive. Evelyn remained crouched, it was easier than sitting and rising again, at least in heavy armor, and glanced back at the woods. The sun was setting.

"Do you think I should have gone with her?"

Her question wasn't entirely out of the blue and Dorian didn't even bother to feign polite confusion. When she looked back his expression was thoughtful, albeit fairly neutral. He shifted his staff and drummed his fingers against the notched wood of the grip.

"He was in quite a state, no doubting that," Dorian answered, at length, but his frown was easy, almost noncommittal. "Then again, if anyone can keep him from obsessing about Elven history, it's Sera. If you'd gone, he'd simply be grieving by a cheerful campfire."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the Graves are so distracting to him," Evelyn admitted and let out a huff. "He's not fond of the Dalish, but the Emerald Knights were..." She trailed off and shook her head. "Harding said the advanced scouts spotted markers on the northern rise, if we follow the water, we can pass them and be back at camp by mid-day."

"Evening," Dorian corrected. "One doesn't jog through historically significant graveyards. It's _rude_." 

"Evening," Evelyn agreed and extended her hands toward the fire. The motion was reflex, her gauntlets were far too well made to let her absorb radiant heat so easily. 

"I don't see why it was necessary to follow me." Solas wasn't close, but the woods were very quiet. 

"Uh, it's called having questions, smarty-elf," Sera sniped back. From the sound of it they were coming from another direction than the one she'd fired in. Evelyn could only assume Solas had set up wards; the idea that Sera had followed him while he did was absolutely ridiculous. Her smile was tight and amused as she looked at Dorian; his mirrored hers almost perfectly.

" _No_ ," Solas replied firmly. There was a snap of a twig and the heavy slide of gravel behind them as they trekked back into the makeshift camp. An orb of silvery blue light hovered around the head of Solas's staff and he extinguished it with a wave as they stepped into the warm firelight. "It does not mean that she can make them _'do tricks'_."

"Well that's no fun, innit," Sera complained dramatically and brushed past him, smearing blood on the sleeve of his coat. His expression pinched with distaste and, as he was wont, Dorian practically threw himself away from Sera and the dead ram.

"Don't get any on me, this is Antivian lambskin," he protested and, simultaneously, made room for Solas around the fire.

Sera heaved the ram over her shoulder and let it fall to the ground next to Evelyn. She was half bathed in blood for the effort and the look she leveled at the human spoke volumes about how grand a favor she'd just done. Without much lingering, Sera stretched her arms up and then shook them down, splattering blood and gore onto the grass outside of the circle of firelight. She grimaced, held her hands out at, for lack of a better term, arms' length, and looked at Dorian.

"Hey, magey, think you can magic that river hot without getting all possessed'n'shite?" It was as polite as Sera was ever likely to be, particularly given the nature of the request and why it was made, and Dorian gave her relatively little hell over it as he drew himself up.

"I shall do my very best," he assured her with an only mildly sarcastic bow and motioned for her to lead the way. 

"You better save me some of that!" 

Her call back to the campfire was nearly lost as she pulled her jerkin over her head and vanished into the inky, encroaching darkness. Evelyn didn't have to look back to check on them. Sera had Dorian to keep watch, Solas had set wards, and though she couldn't see them while she sat in the firelight, she was in full armor with her weapon at the ready. If she charged into the darkness, her eyes would adjust. 

She let her hands linger in front of the fire a moment longer before withdrawing them.

"She followed you while you set wards?" Evelyn asked and stole a glance at Solas. He was watching her, or perhaps the fire, it was hard to gauge the distance and depth of his stare. She didn't let her eyes linger on him too long, it was all too easy to be drawn into those eyes, into his smile and stories, and she had to be alert out here. Instead, she turned her attention to the ram and the dagger Sera had tossed down with it. She kept a cloth to wipe down her own blade, tucked alongside her flasks and the other utilities one required in the wild. It was a task she had yet to attend to, cleaning her sword, but it was one that could wait until later in the evening. She withdrew the cloth and cleaned the blade of Sera's dagger before she removed the back legs of the ram.

"Yes," Solas answered, residual irritation lacing his tone. It was all Evelyn could do not to smile. The knife was very sharp, skinning the butchered pieces took little effort and she set them aside as she worked. "She was quite curious about the extent of your domain over the wolves of the world."

It was hard to say why, but that statement, said in perfect deadpan, was the funniest thing she'd heard all day. Evelyn's laugh was sharp and sudden and the smile it startled onto her face lingered, all but splitting it in her amusement. The offending necklace dangled as she bent over the ram; it glittered dully in the firelight and she paused to glance at it. She stole a similarly short glance at Solas, but he did not appear to share her amusement. His expression was unreadable and, all at once, Evelyn realized her faux-pas. Had he thought she was laughing about his frustration? An apology was premature, but she considered doing it anyway. Conversation with Solas was always interesting but it was often unpredictable, she wanted nothing less than to offend him.

"Can you imagine?" She asked, rhetorically, as she carefully trimmed the meat in front of her. "Me? Holding _domain_ over anything? Least of all wolves." She shook her head, bemused by the idea, but Solas's answer was swift.

"Yes." She looked back at him, her hands paused their work. His expression was serious and his focus intense. As amused as she was, he still did not share her humor. "Quite easily, in fact." 

For a moment, Evelyn was unable to look away from him. They sat in silence broken only by the crackling of the fire and the quiet babbling of the water. The distant sounds of Sera and Dorian conversing, recognizable but unintelligible, faded in and out over the firelight. As abruptly as it came upon them, the moment ended. Evelyn's cheeks burned and there was no disguising her flush. Her hair hid her face, well enough, as she ducked her head and returned to the pretense of work, but her ears were uncovered and doubtless betrayed her.

"I don't want to hold dominion over anything," she said, softly but firmly as she quickly completed her butchering of their dinner.

"And yet, it seems that is your fate," Solas replied, his tone as assured and conversational as it ever was. She was thankful for the shift, holding too much of his focus at once was heady and staggering, it was a rush, an indulgence. It was easier to think if she only captured his partial attention. Then again, his distracted nature had worried her, and to see his normal mannerisms return was a relief. His touch at her shoulder came as a surprise and she started slightly as his fingers curled past her peripheral vision. She hadn't heard him move and, in her shock, her flush maintained itself.

"You will need more than drying blood lotus, I expect," Solas said, his expression kind, and held out a packet of herbs, long ago collected and long dried. All at once she felt ridiculous, a silly girl besotted with her friend, and she shook off her discomfort. Solas inclined his head as she took the packet and drew himself back up to standing. "Is there anything I can do?"

"To help me cook?" Evelyn prompted and Solas nodded again. She considered him and the fire they had built. She was still as she thought. Sera and Dorian had been gone a while but, to her embarrassment, she had no idea how long. The fire was tall and without a vessel they couldn't build inside it. They had few options but nothing insurmountable. Evelyn wiped off the blade and the hilt of the dagger in her hand and flipped it to offer it to him. He took it reluctantly and Evelyn couldn't help but wonder if he found this sort of thing distasteful, or merely daggers in general. "There are a few long thin pieces among the wood, if you could cut them to points, I would be obliged."

"Consider it done." Solas took the knife and set to work in silence.

The quiet of the Emerald Graves was deeply pleasant, the night was cool, the stars were bright where they shone through the dark, shifting canopy above, and the smell of a campfire and tender grass was all she could ask for. The silence that hung between them, as Evelyn drew her blade and flayed the meat from the bone, was comfortable and friendly. Solas's hands made nearly no sound as he worked, that she could even hear the whisper of the dagger was a testament to the calm of this place. Once he had finished, he presented her with stakes and she had the meat skewered, seasoned, and roasting in short order. She suspected the smell of dinner was what drew Sera and Dorian back to camp, but she said nothing as they returned. 

Sera set her clothes out by the fire and, clad only in her small-clothes and boots, dropped to sit at the edge of the pit. The thank you she offered was short and curt and she didn't hesitate to pluck a pair of spears from the fire and tear into them. She complained about burning her tongue, Solas made fun of her, and the evening became blessedly mundane. The fire burned low and Dorian dropped his capelet over Sera's shoulders before leaving to retrieve more firewood. Solas took the liberty of unrolling the bedrolls around the firelight. The moment he finished, Sera dropped down onto hers and knocked his pack askew. As he bent to fix it, Evelyn watched as she released a pair of lizards from the confines of his bedding. Dorian returned after minutes to find Sera tangled hopelessly in his capelet, buried in her bedroll, and gave up retrieving it until the morrow. He retired with a contented sigh and was asleep without another word of conversation.

Evelyn cherished evenings like this, evenings where she could pretend she didn't hold dominion over anything, that she was merely surrounded by friends, and she was. She glanced across the fire at Solas and found him watching the sky. It was easy to stare at him, the way the light danced across his jaw, his cheeks, the way the stars seemed to soak into his eyes when he stared, long and hard, at eternal things. He felt her staring, of course, and turned to meet her gaze. There was an unspoken moment between them, light and familiar, and he silently volunteered to take first watch. He returned to staring at the sky and Evelyn stripped off her gauntlets and boots. Her breastplate was harder to maneuver, loud enough to wake their companions, so she left it on and retired. When she drifted to sleep, it was lazy and comfortable. 

She would not be so lucky again, not for a long time.


	3. The Nothern Rise

Solas awoke as dawn crested the trees. It was too early, particularly considering he'd shared the night watch with the Inquisitor, but something had drawn him out of the Fade. The pre-dawn chill was bracing, as was the light, cool mist that hovered above the ground, waiting for the morning light to burn it away. He blinked in the grey light and pushed himself up onto his elbows. Cold crept in behind him, sneaking into his bedroll with uncomfortable precision, but the warmth of the fire, endlessly rekindled through the night, settled against his side. He woke slowly, almost groggily, and it took moments for his senses to return to him, to step out of the Fade and rejoin him on this side of the veil. Confusion set in his brow as he searched for what had awoken him.

The wards were in place, undisturbed. Camp was still, but for the crackling of fire and the water babbling a stone's throw from them. Nothing was cooking, the air was clear and crisp; morning in the Graves smelled like grass and prophet's laurel. He craned his head and a quiet sound caught his attention. It was not nearly loud enough to wake him, but the how of it was so much less important than the what. He rose from his bedroll, silent and mindful, and walked toward the river. Whatever part of his mind had woken him had granted him a dear gift.

Evelyn was awake, as was her duty, and seated on a large rock above the water. At some point in the night, she'd cleaned her armor, it gleamed in the grey light. Her face was pink, scrubbed recently, and damp braid hung over her shoulder. The thought that he could have come across her bathing only hit him then, but passed out of mind just as quickly. He had no attention to spare, not on weighing the morality of voyeurism, as he strained to listen. Her attention was focused on her sword, as she swept and polished it. The whetstone rested at her feet, he didn't need to look at her blade to know she'd patiently ground out the notches knocked it in during yesterday's combat. The cloth swept down the face of the weapon and, just as Solas began to fear he'd imagined it, she took up humming again.

He didn't recognize the song; he'd have been shocked if he had, honestly. The tune drifted in and out of audibility, her soft singing drown out by the occasional splash of the water or flapping of a distant bird. It was a private thing, sung sweetly without the need for words, hummed absently for no-one but herself. It served no purpose beyond comfort and, as he listened, he found himself just as distracted by it as she was. Without thinking, he stepped closer, so that he might hear it over the ambient noise, but the gravel on the riverbank gave him away and her attention was on him instantly. She was on watch, of course, and he was easily caught.

He froze, expecting her ire for trundling into a private moment, for spying on her thus, without permission or right. He received no reprimand, though, even his lingering didn't give her pause. Without hesitation, Evelyn's face broke into an unreserved smile and she silently beckoned him over. The rocks shuffled beneath his feet as he gradually moved to her side. As he stopped, alongside her and the water, the sun broke through the treeline and cast gold, roseate light across them both. Evelyn squinted into the light and leaned back, ducking herself into his shadow so that she could peer up at him comfortably.

"Good morning," she greeted, bright and welcoming as the sun despite the softness of her voice. "Sleep well?" The question was earnest, insofar as he could tell, and he inclined his head. "Hope I didn't wake you," she added, almost in passing, "one can only be _so quiet_ in full plate."

"Not to worry, my friend, you didn't wake me." It was selfishness that drove the lie to his lips. It spilled forth without hesitation and he felt a twinge of guilt over it. Still, the truth was too expensive, and he couldn't risk her refraining from softly singing just for his comfort, the moment was too precious. She accepted his lie as easily as any truth and leaned out from behind his shadow, closing her eyes and relishing in the warmth of the newly risen sun. 

"Today we'll follow the river back," she said after a stretch of comfortable silence. "Scout Harding said there were a few points of interest along the way; I would like to mark them while we're here."

"Very well," Solas agreed easily. Their path made no difference to him. The woods were pleasant enough, and while he was not eager to linger in them, neither was he eager to return and wait at the main camp, whilst the Inquisitor did combat with _Sera_ as her only ranged support.

The silence that stretched between them, then, as she let the sunlight warm her face and he watched the glow of it dance across her features, was fragile and beautiful. He strained to preserve it and fought the urge to ask about her singing. To ask would be a gamble in and of itself, but he'd always had a terrible weakness for gambling. Distantly, he heard the shift of heavy fabric and the scrape of wood that meant Dorian was awake and had risen. The moment would end, whether he waited or pressed, so he bowed to chance and cleared his throat. Her eyes blinked open and she lifted a brow as she looked at him, politely awaiting his question.

"What song were you singing?" Solas asked, quietly, and the surprise that flashed across her face brought a small, secretive smile to his. "I couldn't place it."

"You heard me?" she asked, quiet and incredulous. She didn't seem ashamed or embarrassed, a fact which boded well, but it did take her a moment to answer. Her smile didn't falter, but she did look down at her blade as she replied. "It's just a children's song, something they taught in the chantry, before we were able to learn hymnals."

"Does it have words?" 

The followup question seemed to startle her as well and she thought it on, eyes unfocused as she recalled a time that could be no more than two decades past. He waited for her answer, patient and still, even as he heard Sera awaken noisily behind him. The conversation Dorian struck up was far louder than this one, but that made no difference to Solas. He whispered because he didn't wish to share this, not because he cared whether the necromancer and the archer had their fill of sleep.

"I don't remember them all," she admitted, after a few moments of deep thought. "It was about the cold of winter, but winter meant death, I think." Her brow dipped with focus and her smile pulled into a line.

"Such pleasant topics for children," Solas joked, softly, in an attempt to return her good humor. 

Whether his attempt succeeded or not, it was hard to say, she returned his soft smile but their conversation was brought to a close as she heard the others stirring in camp. She drew herself up and he stepped back to make room for her as she sheathed her sword and collected the whetstone at her feet. 

Packing up camp was simple and, as mid-morning crept upon them, they started down the river. The water was glassy and bright, the trees were thin enough, young enough, that the blue sky crept through, and the weather was warm and pleasant. The day had started well enough that Solas doubted anything could truly ruin it. Unfortunately, even beautiful days were fickle, and when they turned at mid-day to head north, everything fell apart with staggering speed.

"Bears? Why is it always friggin' bears?" Sera shouted from her perch above him, the twang of her bowstring was a constant. Her arrows struck their mark, one after another, but the massive grey bear barely seemed to notice. His spells and Dorian's seemed utterly ineffective, as if they were little more than gnats pestering the creature. 

"Cassandra will be hurt that we've had all the fun without her," Dorian added, tone forcibly light as he snapped the veil into place and sent a wave of fire across the creature's fur. It burned spectacularly and, for the first time, the beast craned its head in their direction. It had barely turned before the Inquisitor's silverite shield caught it across the neck. Its attention snapped back to her and it reared up, terrible and huge above her, but she didn't waver. She drove her sword up and through its ribs and, all at once, the bear sagged as she pierced its heart. Without a word, both Dorian and he threw blasts of energy and it toppled to its side, crashed hard into the creek and let out a loud, guttering growl as it died.

"Hah!" Dorian's laugh was loud and delighted, if a bit shocked, and rebounded off the rocks and the trees. It came back at them, quiet but discernible, and his face fell. "That, perhaps, was unwise."

The Tevinter had barely finished speaking before they saw the hulking shape of another great bear lumber forth from behind the rocks. There was a terrible moment where it caught sight of them, bedraggled and low on mana, and the Inquisitor considered it. She was already breathing heavily, far too winded and far too open for this sort of combat. Sera stared on in horror and nocked her arrow, but she didn't have a chance to fire before Trevelyan motioned up the hill with her sword. 

"Fall back to the trees, if we can evade it, we will, if not, hold the high ground." 

Sera moved first and Solas backed up after her, following her footfalls by sound as he prepared another barrier. His staff was aloft when he heard Sera's shoes scramble frantically against the dirt, he didn't have time to twist and look before she collided with him. Dorian was wide-eyed and pale as he stared beyond Solas, if he had words, they were lost to the moment. The heavy, wheezing growl was unmistakable and he heard the limb coming, felt the way the air parted around it, even if he didn't see it. Bracing against it would do little good, but he tried, and when it came the blow lifted him off his feet. His senses jarred, thrown as easily and suddenly as he had been, and he might've been thankful for it if he'd been aware. He wasn't thrown far so much as hard, when his head struck stone his vision went dark. 

His eyes were open but he couldn't see, he blinked, closed his eyes hard and opened them. They refused to work in unison. His right eye cleared before his left, coming into bleary focus as patches of darkness parted to reveal the world again. His ears were ringing, his pulse was in them, heavy and hard, and when he sucked in a seemingly endless breath of air, pain lanced down his neck and back, rippled like fire down his spine. His fingers worked, clenched and unclenched, scraped across the uneven ground and the rock he was slumped against, until they found his staff. A blur of blonde pushed up past his eyes and stumbled back from him. There was a glassy pop and she wreathed herself in flame as she moved away, shouting obscenities at the towering creature--

Giants.

Everything snapped back into place and Solas clenched his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled, once, twice, and clung to his staff as he forced his eyes to focus. They refused to work all at once, shifting independently as he stared at the scene before him. A burst of purple and black exploded along his periphery and there was another pop chased by lightning and blasphemous Tevene. A grey shape lumbered up the slope and Solas felt his stomach drop out. Where was--

"Solas needs help!" 

The giant let out a frustrated shout and the ground gave a sickening lurch as it jumped. The world moved slowly as his eyes found the Inquisitor, her shield braced and stance square, alone before the giant. He could barely stand, but his half formed spell sat at the tip of his tongue. He cast the barrier without thought and stumbled forward, landing hard on his knees and jarring his neck, his head in the process. The giant brought its fists down and the ground quaked as it landed. There was no scream, only the dull clang of metal on flesh, as he desperately tried to stand again.

"I'd like ta' live, thanks!" Sera called, angry and fearful all at once. The bear let out a roar of bitter anger and the archer shrieked. It was Dorian who shouted her name and the force of the spell that followed almost sent Solas sprawling again. Tendrils of fear, whispers of death and the visage of a great floating maw loomed above them briefly.

"Dorian! Get them out of here!" The command brooked no argument, but it was pointless.

"Take her," Solas shouted, insofar as he was able. He could see neither Dorian nor Sera, he could barely stand. If escape was the goal, he provided nothing but a death sentence. Whether Dorian agreed with him, or believed he would protect the Inquisitor, it was impossible to say, but the Tevinter didn't attempt to rouse him. Solas closed his eyes, for just a moment, and drew a deep breath. When he opened them again, they were more cooperative and he gathered his feet beneath him.

The sounds of a sword hitting flesh, of growling and rage, metal and the clatter of plate crowded his ears and stole his focus. His breath was coming too fast, and his head was swimming. He steeled himself and light danced in his eyes. He would bring down fire and stone on this creature, open the very sky and lay waste to it. He lifted his staff, but as it left the ground there was a dull twang and a burst of fresh pain as an arrow struck him in the shoulder. He twisted with the force of it and lacked the grace to recover. Solas collapsed and, when his head struck the ground again, his vision went white. 

He couldn't move. Perhaps he could, but he didn't think to. Thought was beyond him as his eyes struggled to see.

_"SOLAS!"_

He saw her lips move, watched twist of her features, but if he heard her it was distant, muffled. The giant lifted its fist again and drove it down. He could see the impact as it resounded down her arm, as it bent her legs toward the earth, and as she threw it off, braced behind her shield wall. She twisted to stare at him and again shouted his name.

No, why was she distracted?

The giant turned from her as an arrow struck its face. It wasn't one of Sera's, the fletching was red, the bolt was black. He couldn't feel his body. Without the distraction, thoughts came to him with clarity, like the ringing of a bell. 

Red templars.

She had to pay attention.

His eyes tracked from the bolt to the Inquisitor. She was staring at him, horrified, but he couldn't hear her. She couldn't hear him, if he was speaking, and he watched with painful slowness as the ripples in the veil coalesced and became a crystal beast. It drove on arm, sharp and crimson, between the plates of her armor, deep into her side, and she arched in pain. She caught herself, and even the quickness of that thing was no match for her. It drew its arm free and she twisted around, pivoted and brought her shield down across it. He could see the cracks as they webbed out over its skin, breaking bone and body. It shattered and she drew a breath, shallow and panting before her eyes fixed on his again. 

The shadow of the giant fell away and the ground quaked beneath him. The sun was behind her and, for a moment, he saw the glittering visage of a goddess. The golden light was eclipsed too quickly, replaced by blighted red, and he watched the behemoth rise up behind her. It lifted its hammer and she turned away from him. Her shield came up, but it was too late, the blow fell and sent her sprawling. It struck again as it raised its arm and she was thrown down the slope. She slid past him, eyes distant and unfocused, then they rolled back and her lids slipped closed.

No.

He watched her, for a terrible moment and it turned his stomach. Something inside him twisted painfully, sickened by the sight of her, by the impossibility of this. She would get up. She always rose.

The longer he stared at her, the longer it felt. Seconds became an eternity and sorrow coiled inside him. A shadow fell across her face, blocking it from the sun, and that sorrow became black, oozing rage.

How dare they?

His anger swallowed him whole, consumed him, and Solas forced his limbs to obey. Pain fed his rage and even he could hear the snarl he let out as he turned his gaze on the creatures that cast her down. What gall they had. His arms locked as he pushed himself upright. A templar raised his sword and it took barely a motion to curl the veil in and crush him. The veil bowed to him, bent to his will, and he would see them suffer. His knees failed him as he moved to stand, but it didn't matter. If this body was not up to the task, he had another. His vision shifted, drifted and realigned as he assumed a different shape. The pain of his limbs receded alongside complex thought, he lamented the loss of neither. He didn't need words for what he was going to do.

The behemoth broke between his jaws, shattered like glass under his weight, and he turned his attention to the others. The archers swarmed him, stinking of blight and fear. He tore through them like paper, spilled their innards across the grass and crushed their skulls beneath his feet. The knights required more attention, but only just. He peeled them open, rending bone from flesh, all but cackling as he did. The Graves were littered with templars, dead but also living. The scent of corruption and blood was everywhere, he could nearly feel them between the trees, and he let out an unearthly howl as he braced for the chase. It had been centuries--

_"Solas--"_

His head whipped back; six eyes focused all at once. He saw her move.


	4. Pain and Grief

Evelyn rarely woke because of pain, before the anchor it hadn't ever happened, but even after the anchor, she'd never succumbed to pain. The blow that bent her shield had shattered her arm, she knew it as it staggered her, as her fingers faltered on her sword and it clattered on the stone. She lost her footing and stumbled back, toward Solas. Her balance was as broken as her guard, as her arm, and when the backswing came, she could only watch it. It struck her chest, glanced across her jaw, and the force of it found her, even through her armor. Her back hit the ground but there was no air to drive from her, she gasped, but her jaw was locked shut. She could taste blood. She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't breathe.

Her heart hammered against her battered ribs, pressed up against the new, digging bend in her breastplate, and her vision swam. There was no telling how long she blacked out, unseeing, unfeeling, but sensation came rushing back to her like the tide. Her jaw trembled as it released, as she tried to scream, but she had no breath. She gasped and, at once, she regretted it. Her face screwed up, she felt it move, but her limbs remained dead weight at her sides. She felt heavy, too heavy, and her armor was a weight she couldn't lift.

Get up.

She had to, she knew she had to. 

It took time, but she realized her eyes were closed. Never had prying apart her eyelids required so much effort, but she managed it. The world was upside down, the Graves loomed above her and there was distant, darkening sky below. What little equilibrium she had left revolted, spun and tried to right itself, and her stomach turned. She crushed her eyes closed, tried not to breathe, and waited for as long as she could. When she drew breath again, her ribs dug against her burning lungs and cut her all anew.

Dorian and Sera were gone.

Escaped? Yes.

Solas.

Her neck screamed as she tried to turn her head. The pain was blinding. Her breastplate threatened to cut her throat, to crush her windpipe, if she twisted farther than she should. She couldn't turn her eyes far enough to see. Was he above her? Farther up the rise? Was he alive? It took all of her breath, every ounce of it, but she forced the sound from her throat and called to him. The shout came out as a whisper in the wind, barely louder than the pounding behind her ribs or the babbling of the creek. 

She had to see. 

She clenched her teeth, screwed her eyes closed, and with all the force left in her, she turned her head. The metal of her armor dug into her neck, pressed into her at terrible, harsh angles, but she didn't feel her skin break. She gasped, lightheaded from the strain, from the press of metal against her neck, and pried her eyes open. She saw his staff, forgotten and alone. The dirt was ruddy, caked with blood, and meat, and shards of red lyrium. Panic, hope, and grief warred in her chest as she stared at the empty space where he should have been. Her vision was already growing dark.

Evelyn's attention was so divided, so scattered, that she barely noticed the shadow as it came upon her. The press of something cool and wet to her temple would have made her start, if she'd had the mobility for it. Whatever it was, it wedged between her head and the ground and gently righted her head. Lights danced behind her eyes as the pressure on her neck eased, when they cleared she was staring up at the largest wolf she had ever seen. To even call it a wolf was to draw a false parallel. It loomed above her, twice the size of any bear she'd ever fought, an easy contender for a high dragon. Its fur was dark and shifted like midnight, ephemeral and surreal as a dream. It had six red eyes, fathomless and glowing, and all locked on her.

Evelyn drew a shuddering breath and the pain in her chest consumed her. She recoiled, ground her teeth against it, and the creature above her growled. The sound rumbled deep inside it, with all the weight of a nightmare made flesh, and when she opened her eyes there was a massive clawed paw hovering above her. She pressed back against the ground, screwed her eyes shut and braced herself. Raw panic gripped her, but she was helpless. When the paw came down, pain exploded in her ribs and across her side. She bit back a scream and tried to turn away--it pressed its nose against her head again, gentle even as it dug claws into her ruined armor. Her whole body jerked and agony consumed her as it tore the breastplate free. 

As she sank into unconsciousness, she thought she heard a whine, soft and kind.

Her sleep, if it could be called that, was black and dreamless. It engulfed her, cold and hard, jagged and restless, and spat her back out when it saw fit. Sleep often felt like floating, sinking into the shallows of the Fade. This, whatever it was, had dragged her down to the crushing black and released her to claw her way up, to struggle and dream of breathing again. She broke the surface of her sleep almost violently; her eyes were wide and her attention instant and focused, but adrenaline did nothing to assist disorientation and, after a moment, it failed to mask her pain.

She'd propelled herself up with the force of her waking, half-sitting, her wide eyes roved the area around her. She wasn't in camp, she wasn't in skyhold. It was dark, but the moon shone through the mouth of the cave--Cave? Panic settled in her throat, and the arm holding her up quaked. After another few seconds, it collapsed beneath her weight and sent her on her back again. She clenched her teeth, expecting her skull to strike stone, but it never came. It took more than a few moments to realize that she wasn't lying on the ground. There was bedding beneath her, thick and grassy.

Evelyn rolled her head to the side and stared into the darkness. Her nose was stuffed, swollen closed, and she doubted she could smell anything beyond blood if she tried. She sucked in air through her mouth and, even without her nose, she knew the taste of it, the heavy, rising smell of elfroot. It was fresh, and there was enough that it could serve as bedding. 

She almost reeled at the thought--elfroot was so easily crushed, such a delicate plant, she couldn't fathom it being used for this. How much of it was here?

The pain in her side was livid and pounding. She needed stitches, at the very least. Had this kept her from bleeding out in the dirt? Who had stacked all of this? Who had found it with enough speed to save her life? How had they done it? It was boggling and each new question spawned another after it, they sloshed between her thoughts, liquid and overwhelming, enough to drown her again. She squeezed her eyes closed and turned her head away from the mouth of the cave, away from the light, as pain spiked in her head.

Whatever was behind her head, beside her, it was soft and warmed easily beneath her face. She let out a heavy, shaking breath against it and, to her horror, she felt it move. It didn't leave her, like a pillow being pulled away, but rather shifted, muscle and bone sliding beneath skin, beneath fur. She froze and the stiffness in her made the pain all the more acute.

A cold spot pressed against the other side of her neck, bumped the side of her head, and she knew instantly what it was. The wolf, that great wolf, was curled around her. She turned her head, looked back over her shoulder, and six wide eyes peered at her from the darkness. It pressed forward, bumped her chin with its nose, and she hissed sharply in pain as it grazed the bruise left by the behemoth's hammer. Whatever reprisal she expected, a growl, a warning, a snap, that wasn't what she received. A warm tongue stretched out and chased the wound on her jaw. Behind her the wolf curled closer and, after a time, settled its head alongside her, across her sword arm.

Evelyn was mystified. Cold terror was replaced with confusion and awe as all of her questions found one strange, massive answer. As she stared at it, a creature large enough to devour her whole and unbroken, the only question that mattered was 'Why?' She looked down at her chest, abruptly, but her armor was missing. With it, wherever it lay, in a broken heap, so too was her amulet--her armor, her amulet--Solas.

"Oh Maker, _Solas_ ," she whispered, bitter and sad, without thinking. 

Her voice all but echoed in the cave and the wolf turned its head to look directly at her. Her breath caught in her throat, but it was useless, she couldn't smother the sob that rose from her chest any more than she could stop this creature if it decided to take her life. This had been too much, this all had been far too much, and she'd lost one of her dearest friends. She swallowed thickly at the realization and came apart. Her tears dried long before she was done crying, leaving her straining and her head pounding. She ignored it, ignored her head and arm, the way her ribs creaked, and the way her throat cracked. None of it mattered to her as she sobbed painfully into the fur of the great wolf.

Red-faced and grief stricken, Evelyn didn't question it when the wolf whined and pressed its head against hers. She had no energy for suspicion, for caution, and her sword arm curled beneath the wolf's jaw. She drew it close and clutched it to her as she buried her eyes against its snout. She had no idea how long she wept, but the creature allowed her to cling to it desperately until she exhausted herself and slipped into sleep again.


	5. Sound and Silence

" _Nug-fucking' shite-faced cock-gobbling bear cunt--_ " Sera seethed, emphatically stringing together insults from the foulest words that sprang to mind. Most of it was gibberish, growled and hissed between gritted teeth as she curled around her stomach. 

She'd been silent at first, grinding her teeth as Dorian snatched her up and bolted from the battle, but that hadn't lasted long. The bear, terrified and confused, fled from them, but the rock-crushing cattle-creatures that the giants tended were all too eager to attack in its stead. Dorian evaded them, with a truly staggering helping of luck, and somehow managed to leap from a small cliff and land without breaking every bone in his legs. Unfortunately, his brilliant manipulation of the veil, to slow and catch them before they met a rocky death in the stream below, went utterly unappreciated as the pair hit the ground and rolled into an inelegant heap at the bottom of the hill. Sera had cursed him, thrown several rocks at his head, and then settled where she lie, spouting this endless litany of vulgarity as she curled up in the dirt.

"If you can _be quiet_ for a full minute I might be able to focus," Dorian snapped as he drew himself up off the ground. High above he heard the crash and clatter of metal on metal, but the trees created an echo. By the time it reached him, the sound was distorted it too badly to tell what, precisely, was happening. Sera scrambled for another rock to hurl at him but her fingers found only sand, the resulting pelting was less than satisfying for her.

"Fuck off! I just got side-swipped by a great bloody bear!" Sera shouted back at him, her voice tight and angry even as it dissolved into a high whine and a seething breath.

Dorian's attention faltered, he'd been waiting, searching for a flash of silver or a curl of cold, but Sera was more immediate, more pressing, than his attempts to track the Inquisitor's retreat. Reluctantly he tore his attention from the brush and the rocks above and looked at the elf, curled on the ground alongside him. She was bleeding badly; her armor was stained red. A quick glance down told him that his Antivian lambskin was forever ruined. He made no mention of it as he moved to kneel beside her. Sera cracked an eye open and stared up at him. Her lip curled into a sneer and, lying there, cheek pressed against the dirt, teeth bared, glowering, she look like some cornered, feral creature. He had no doubt she'd bite his hand off, given half the chance.

"So what, you gonna make with the magic and heal this up or just stare?" Sera asked, her face already pale. Whether it was from terror or blood-loss, it was hard to say.

"Well--" Dorian started and cringed. "Let us say...I never excelled at those lessons."

Sera's eyes widened and her fear of magic was banished for fear of something more macabre. She picked her head off the ground and glared at him, properly. Her teeth clenched as her fists balled.

"You worthless arsehole--shite mage--can't do a healing spell? What the fuck good _are you?_ " Sera railed, panicked, and released the crushing grip on her stomach to swing a bloodied fist at him. She cuffed him across the thigh as hard as she could. It hurt, but it wasn't about to unseat him. His lack of reaction incised her and she swung again, then again, and finally she drew up her other fist, hitting him in her frustration. Her energy left her in a rush and, all too quickly, she was simply frowning, her fists, loose and limp, resting against his leg. Her anger turned to horror and she looked up at him, wide eyes watery and huge.

No--anger he could deal with, tears were another matter. Anger and sass were part of who she was, he needed her angry, if she broke down, he had no idea how to handle her or this situation.

"Well, I can always resurrect you and play pranks with your corpse," Dorian offered, his voice laced with bravado and pomp that he didn't feel. He cocked his head to the side, ignored her snarl, and examined the wound across her stomach. "What? I think it would be a fitting memorial."

"Fucking mages, creepy corpse-cocking arse-face," Sera babbled and cuffed him again.

The wound across her stomach was bloody and terrible. For all he lacked in squeamishness--one did not become a necromancer if one had a weak constitution, after all--seeing so much fresh blood made him feel faint. There was something about watching a person bleed in time with their pulse… he found it impossibly eerie, but he steeled himself. He was more than reluctant to touch her wound, not with his hands, so long as he could help it, so he knocked her side with his staff. It was little more than a gentle nudge, but she twisted away from him, opening the wound and seething a fresh litany of hideous insults. 

"I didn't know you spoke Tevene," Dorian commented lightly and Sera told him that his mother was a vicious prostitute with rows of jagged teeth in her nethers. Honestly, he'd never heard that one, he was rather impressed. "Now I have some news for you, good and bad."

The fight and anger drained out of Sera at once as he spoke. He looked back at her eyes, expression far less jovial than he was trying for. His smile was weak, but offering to let her pick the order she heard it...well, that seemed cruel. He doubted she could speak, now, anyway, unless he wanted to hear more nonsense cursing.

"This is just a flesh wound, it looks bad, but you don't need a proper healer. Stitches, at the very worst," Dorian told her and, unconsciously, the elf relaxed, her shoulders slumping back against the ground. "That's the good news. The bad news is, you don't get a healer, you get me and a glorious full day's hike back to the forward camp."

Reluctant as he was to actually engage in healing magic, it was hard to learn any sort of magic without picking up a few quick-fix spells. It was too easy to burn yourself, freeze something, or bang an appendage while playing around with raw magic; every apprentice librarian's assistant knew first aid. Unfortunately, it took him a moment to remember how to do it to someone else and, again unfortunately, his look of consternation as he tried to recall the method did little to instill trust in his abilities. Sera watched him with mounting horror as he thought, clearly weighing the pros and cons of a heavily bleeding wound and magical healing from a necromancer. Fortunately, he remembered before she had the chance to turn him down.

"Alright, I think I've got it," Dorian announced and set his staff aside. On reflex, Sera's hands snapped away from him and retreated by her head. Were she not on her back and caked in blood, he might've thought she wanted to box him. No matter. He drew on the veil and, when he clapped his hands together above her, the curl of unfamiliar but simple magic twisted around them. "Just like riding a horse, I assure you."

"Yah, I bet, 'cept with more demons and possession," Sera replied distantly, dryly, eyes locked on his hands and a worried frown on her face. One would think he had a rabid badger dangling above her for all the dramatics and fussing.

Dorian rubbed his hands together as he silently crafted the spell. A greenish white light sprung up around his fingers, haloed his hands, and Sera pressed herself back against the ground. She sucked in a sharp breath as he parted his hands and brought them over her stomach. Both of them, mage and archer, winced and turned their heads away as Dorian pressed his hands against her wound. She cursed through the pain and Dorian winced at the feel of live blood trickling through his fingers. He needed to focus--winding magic to close the wounds, to stop the bleeding, was simple. He raised the dead on a regular basis.

This was nothing, he could do this.

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and focused on the task at hand. Once he'd stopped the bleeding, it wasn't so terrible, but he itched to scrub his hands clean as soon as possible. Sera's cursing gave way to a heavy sigh and she dropped an arm across her face, burying her eyes in the blood-soaked elbow of her shirt. It was a testament to his skill, frankly, that she stopped insulting him and staring in abject horror as he worked. He was nearly smug as he finished the spell and drew his hands away. She was caked in blood, of course, and her armor was utterly ruined, but the wounds had closed and, apart from some truly impressive scars, she'd be quite fine.

Without pausing to think, Dorian wiped his hands on his thighs. The moment he did it, he realized his mistake and let out a slow, put upon groan. His smug smile vanished and Sera shifted her arm to look at him. She eyeballed him, confused by his grumbling, until she spotted the hand-prints across the thighs of his literally fancy-pants. Her amused snort was sudden and loud and gave way to a wave of vindictive giggling. 

Dorian jabbed her in the side with his staff as he stood. She yelped indignantly but her voice caught as she started in on a fresh insult. It was not in her nature to suddenly fall silent, especially when obscenities were in good order, and Dorian cocked a brow as he looked down at her. She was staring past him and he followed her gaze back to the hillside. Whatever she'd seen, he'd missed, he only caught a glimpse of shifting shadow through the brush.

" _Fuck me--_ " Sera whispered through her fingers and, before she could suck in another breath, screaming cut through the trees.

The sounds of combat were cacophonous but, ultimately, predictable. Metal hit metal, bowstrings twanged, people shouted, magic crackled, and occasionally some great massive creature or another would throw something very large and hit something else very large. Occasionally it would hit something very small. It was a racket, loud and disjointed, and sounded functionally similar to throwing kitchen equipment down a flight of stairs. 

What they heard, resounding through the trees of the Emerald Graves, was not combat. Snarling, great and massive, clawed across the rocks. Shrieks, honest to the Maker _shrieking_ , in the timbre of grown men, followed. Their screaming curdled the blood and the sounds that chased after were all too graphic. The pealing of metal on something sharp and hard was agonizing, the note, the sound of it _changed_ as the metal gave, and each time they heard it, the screaming stopped. There were very few sounds like the rending of bone and flesh, it was unmistakable, but this wasn't simply something taking a bite out of some unfortunate creature's neck, or twisting free a limb, this was the staccato popping of ribs, the snapping of webbed muscles, and the death rattle of a man who had lived long enough to experience the feeling of that sort of dismemberment.

The sounds died out, guttural and gurgling, and the forest was deathly still around them. They didn't have time to exchange so much as a look before a howl cut through the air. 

Fear shot down Dorian's back, clenched at the most primitive part of his brain, and filled him with deep, overwhelming dread. He'd never heard a sound like that, magical or otherwise. There was no Qunari warrior, no terror, no rage demon that came close to that sound. It ripped through the air, echoed off stone, and became all the sharper for it. As he stared at the brush, unable to see anything, he felt Sera's hand fist around the belting across his chest. She hauled him into a run, strength renewed as the desire to flee consumed them, and they scrambled up the hill.

Maker preserve them, whatever was on that cliff-- _on the cliff_ \--

"Sera," Dorian hissed, quickly and quietly, but it still felt too loud, far too loud. Sera rounded on him, but he whipped his staff around and leveled it at the rise above them. She stared and, after a beat, understood.

The Inquisitor and Solas were still up there. Neither of them had been watching but...if they'd escaped, they'd have followed the same path. 

They were still up there with _whatever_ that was.

Neither Dorian nor Sera were particularly suited to command decisions. Their motivations were good, individually, and they were devoted to the Inquisitor's cause, but this was outside their spheres. Neither of them had the information they wanted, that they needed, to make a decision like this and the longer they waited, the worse it became. They stared at one another for many grueling, horrible seconds, each waiting on the other to speak, hoping desperately that one of them had something resembling a plan, and that everything could be worked out. After several more seconds, tense with silence, whatever plan they might have concocted was rendered irrelevant.

Another howl ripped through the trees and this one stretched long and lilting. As it ended, matching howls picked up behind them, to the east, the west, the south--wolves, dozens of them, started barking and sounding through the trees. There was no going back now, however much they'd wanted to. Sera was unarmed, save for a single hunting dagger, Dorian had his staff but a pack of black wolves, let alone a dozen packs and a great demonic beast spat from the depths of his darkest terrors, was more than he could handle. They needed help, the Inquisitor and Solas needed help, and they both knew where to find it. Their primitive brains demanded they flee the howling of that wolf and, finally, they gave in. They took off running, fear snapping at their ankles, and silently praying that the path to the forward camp remained clear.


	6. The Dreamers

Evelyn was so tired of sleep.

She felt like a drowning rat, scrambling against turbulent waves, swallowing more water than air every time she surfaced. 

Evelyn was not, in any sense of the word, a mage. Her talents were simple, traded on grace and power, and utterly lacked any mystical component. She had no talent for magic and even now, with the anchor in her hand, the very key to the Fade itself, she couldn't imagine herself manipulating the veil. The idea that she could shape the Fade, in her dreams or while waking, was preposterous in every possible sense of the word.

She feared demons, of course she did, but not in the same way that mages did. The Fade was not a foothold into her soul, she risked nothing lingering there, her curiosity was not a liability, her emotions required no minding. She could dream without consequence, untethered and adrift on the currents that swirled below the surface of the world. It had not occurred to her, after being given the anchor, or even conversing with Solas in her dreams, that she would ever need to mind herself, to take care what she did and where she did it. As she stared into the Fade around her, and she recognized it in a way that was too clear, too sharp, to qualify as lucid dreaming, she began to realize that she was a fool.

Evelyn stood in the Emerald Graves, she recognized it, but the location was strange and fundamentally nonspecific. The trees, the rocks, the water, the sky, all of them were part of the Emerald Graves, but none of them were exact, they were distillations of all the rocks, of all the water, of all the sky, and all the trees, and the place they created was a cold amalgam. She stood inside a world that was little more than a stage, littered with set-pieces and decoration.

This wasn't real, even if it felt like it. 

She walked forward, but the ground was silent beneath her, the gravel refused to give. It was like walking on glass, surreal and without traction, but also without gravity or weight to cause her to slide. The sensation was strange, unpleasant, and unsettling, but Evelyn could ignore it. Ignoring stimulus, having enough of it to ignore while she walked a dream was a new concept, managing it took conscious effort. 

There was nowhere to go, here, because there was nowhere to come from. This was an endless expanse of symbols taken from the Graves, an eternity of hazy repetition without function or reason. It reproduced something that seemed like the Graves, but without the necessary logic, without the distance, the _space_ to bind itself together. 

The Fade was a constant conflict, the rules were varied and inconsistent, and Evelyn was unaccustomed to it. Trying to adjust to the simplest things was a constant struggle and she had no idea why. Why was _this_ dream so strange and jarring? It was hardly the most outlandish thing she'd ever envisioned, it wasn't half so strange as things she'd seen before, asleep or waking, why did removing rules make it so hard? Why was the ground ignoring her? How did she know that it was? That it could?

"Wait," Evelyn said, and though she spoke, her voice didn't carry at all. It fell flat, inches from her face, drowned out by the sounds that a forest should make: the babbling brook, the rustling leaves, the crack of distant wood. "In my dreams everything changes for me, doesn't it?"

She only remembered her dreams in flashes, bits and pieces that followed no logical order and probably hadn’t when she’d experienced them, but what she did recall was vivid enough. If she were running, the floor might become sand around her, or water to swallow her up, it might fall away as she grew wings, and the sky would compress to meet her. The logic, the path her dreams followed always centered around her. Despite the inconsistency of her memory, she was certain, absolutely certain, that every dream she'd ever had revolved, literally, around her, pivoting strangely and changing to suit her needs, to hinder or help _her_ and her alone. She was never a bystander, alone and confused, in her own mind. 

So where was she now?

"Hello?" Evelyn called and, once again, her voice fell flat before her, she could almost see it snuffed into silence. 

How did Solas do this? How did he wander through dreams that weren't his own when everything fought against the intrusion? 

She walked, but the world refused to progress, there was nowhere meaningful to go so nowhere meaningful existed. She was not an actor and so the stage remained somewhere _else_. Frustrated and confused, Evelyn lifted her hands and cupped them around her mouth. When she called out again, she felt the anchor snag and, this time, her voice carried. Her voice more than carried, it echoed, clear and undiminished against every surface. It rebounded through the Graves like a ripple across still waters and she felt something change.

The trees, the ground, the sky, all of them had been colorless. They were symbols without meaning, a framework of white and senseless, dull shadows. They had the feel of color to them, the smell and taste of hue and presence, but they were echoes of echoes and just as faded. She felt the dream lurch around her and the ground seemed to pull with it, to give and bend around some distant moving point. It came closer and the ground all but sloped around it. Color burst against the surfaces around her like bruises rising on tender flesh. Everything shivered, jumped and blurred, and suddenly she wasn't standing in a symbol any longer, but in a great and terrible wood. It was the Graves, yes, but no longer a blanked slate. This place was horrible, filled with burning red light and air that tasted of copper but smelled of nothing. The whole world seemed to exist at an angle, tilting and ready to slide down, in one way or another, until darkness swallowed it.

This was a nightmare. This was someone's nightmare.

Evelyn let her feet drive her forward. The sense of weight, the point that dragged this world in line with it, wasn't the same as the sensation of down, of below, and it was difficult for her to follow one and not the other. With great effort, she managed, and trekked through a dense forest that ignored her. Spider webs refused to break against her skin, passing through her like phantoms, water stood still and solid as stone beneath her feet, and all the world refused her touch, her interference, as she moved through it. 

Eventually she came to a hollow. 

This was not in the Graves. She recognized nothing, not the trees, the rocks, or even the pitch darkness that absorbed the sky above. The trees rose up, thick and knotted, in a hazy, shadowed ring. Empty altars lay in broken stacks between the trees, piled high, far beyond sight, and bore down on the branches until they were near to breaking. The wood had grown together like claws and still it shifted, moving like shadows through a child's window, ready to smother and maim any who tread beneath. 

This place was awful.

She could feel the dreamer here, beneath this terrible weight, sinking into a crushing, lonely darkness, and her heart broke. She couldn't see, and had to torch, no lantern to light the way. Evelyn lifted her hand and the anchor sputtered to life against her palm. Its green light, the color of the Fade itself, was different here. It shone brilliant white, gleamed silver and streaming, and she could just make out the details of the hollow. Blood stained the floor, trickled down from the cracks in the altars, from the knotholes in the trees, and pooled against a crumbling tile floor. In the back, huddled against a set of broken steps, a decaying staircase to nowhere, she found a person.

"Hello?" Though she'd asked it softly, the world flinched violently around her. 

She pushed herself into the anchor and it shone brighter, but it couldn’t illuminate everything in equal measure. Some things were not there to be illuminated, faded into shadow or lost to memory. This wasn't her dream, she had no control over what she saw, she couldn't force anything to come into focus or drop away. What she could see, though, was more than enough. She didn't recognize the dreamer’s clothing, she couldn't see details of their form even as she stepped closer, but she would know that jawbone necklace anywhere. Her heart jumped into her throat as she moved and took a knee beside him.

"Solas?" There was hope in her voice, raw and painful, and she couldn't quite remember why. Why did it hurt? Why was her joy a solid weight in her chest? It didn't matter.

Evelyn reached out for him, settled her hand on his shoulder and the world shivered again. Her feet sank into the blood and mud across the floor. The taste of copper coated her mouth, her skin, and the light in her hand was nearly extinguished as she joined him, as she sunk into this place, as she became part of it. He was shaking, shoulders wracked with fine tremors, fingers twitching almost randomly against the floor, and she drew him up gently. His head lolled forward and she caught his chin in her other hand. As she righted it, the dull shine of the anchor threw his face into light and Evelyn sucked in a shocked breath. He was broken.

It was literal, at least in this place, and the sight was gruesome. As if he were a piece of porcelain, some flesh toned vase that had been knocked off a table, his head had shattered. His face was gone, save for the rise of one cheek, the base of an ear, and as she stared at him, the gaping void stared back at her. The hollow darkness beneath his skin was almost tangible, she could nearly hear it whispering, and she had the strangest feeling that it was leaking out, sliding over her fingers and covering the floor, but the sensation didn't align with what she saw.

Was this the work of a demon? Some trick to ensnare her? No, it couldn't be. What would be the point? What deal could be struck, here? With her, of all people?

She smoothed her palm across his cheek, braced what was left of him, and drew his head against her shoulder. His body barely moved, pliant and unresponsive, and Evelyn sat as she cradled what remained of his head. The blood on the floor soaked her legs until she was seated hip deep in it. The urge to find his face, the missing pieces of him, and put him together nagged at her. She knew she had to...but she also _knew_ it didn't matter. It didn't matter because this wasn't real, this was a dream...and yet, the longer she held him, the harder it became to remember that. This place was gradually crushing her, smothering her, choking her with the corrosive red light and the pitch black that followed it. 

Evelyn closed her eyes hard, blocked out the dream, and felt the oily press of darkness as it rose around her. It was lighter than water, but cloying, and the longer she considered it, recognized it, the more it affected her. It was hard to move her limbs, she felt brittle, feared she might shatter as he had--No, it wasn't real. 

"Solas, where are you?" She asked softly, lips all but pressed against the place where his skull should have been. She knew she had spoken, but the sound was crushed as it left her mouth, smothered by the dream. All she heard was a resounding, deafening silence. 

She felt it, darkness, pouring into her mouth, filling her lungs, but it wasn't real. She drew him closer, held his head, and fought to ignore his nightmares. She would stay until he woke, it was how she kept him safe, kept them all safe. She was determined, steeled herself to ride this out, but something cold pressed against her cheek and her eyes flew open. 

Dreams were strange, and though she had just fought to understand this one, it was so very easy to forget that the rules were ever-shifting. She hadn't let go of him, she hadn't intended to, but now Solas stood above her, his empty face tilted down. She looked down, tried to follow his absent gaze, and found her arms curled around the head of that great wolf. 

She didn't know what woke her, the shock of it, the weight of the red eyes, the burning in her chest, but her eyes flew open again and the darkness was gone. Morning light stretched down through the mouth of the cave. The sky beyond was grey, cloudy and foreboding. Her heart hammered in her chest, frantic and strained, and she drew a shaky breath.

She wanted to rejoice, Solas was alive...but was that what the dream meant? What it was? And the head of the great wolf, why had it replaced him? He was the dreamer, she felt it, but the dream….The meaning eluded her, and her head was light and muddled, but she had to find it, even alone. Solas was not here to help.


	7. The Seeker

"Unstick my path, _shemlen_ , before I stick you."

The words fell with audible weight. In the eerie, smothering silence of the forest, the elf's heavy Dalish brogue nearly echoed off the trees. The Inquisition camp was not wanting for archers, three scouts had already trained their bows on the Dalish elf, ready to fire in an instant, but none of them were foolish enough to take the first shot. It was one thing to shoot down a mercenary or a freeman before they could attack, but none of the human scouts could match Dalish speed with a bow. If they fired, the elf would be able to get off five shots before they could reload, all of which would be fatal, and the first of which would certainly fall directly between Seeker Pentaghast's eyes. 

The Dalish hunter had practically blundered into the Inquisition camp; his haste had bordered on reckless and he'd been preoccupied checking the road behind him. When he turned forward and found himself in the Inquisition camp he had been as surprised by their presence as they had his sudden appearance. He'd scrambled to a halt just shy of plowing into Seeker Pentaghast and an instant of shock turned hostile as quickly as it registered. Before a single word had been uttered, before Cassandra could even draw her sword, the elf had his bow raised and an arrow drawn. He sighted down it, green eyes clear and unflinching, and managed, somehow, to stare down Cassandra Pentaghast and hold her gaze. Cassandra was, as always, unflinching in the face of imminent violence and her dark eyes locked hard on the hunter. If he expected her to panic and back down, he was sorely mistaken; Cassandra was a woman who stared down dragons. 

The longer he held her gaze, the more clearly he recognized her resolve.

"I will not ask ya' again." His bow creaked with quiet grace as he adjusted the grip. The move was for emphasis, little more, and Cassandra was deeply unimpressed. The Seeker's grip tightened on her blade and, behind him, the Inquisition scout's bows creaked with far less elegance. 

This situation was dangerous and confused, it had escalated to deadly force before anything as simple as identities or motivations came to light. The Inquisition held the path into the Emerald Graves but they had no quarrel with the Dalish. Cassandra would have permitted him through without pause, had his shock not resulted in an immediate burst of hostility. Now that he was hostile, that he'd posed a threat, he wouldn't leave this camp with anything resembling ease. Cassandra was unwilling to back down and the Dalish hunter was unwilling to linger; his stance growing more and more uncomfortable with each passing second. There were many ways this standoff could have ended, most of them predictable and bloody, but what finally broke it apart was an high, breathless shout and a bottle.

"Hey _arse-biscuit_ , head's up an' catch!"

The glint off of a bottle, lobbed high into the air from the east, caught the hunter's attention. His gaze flickered from Cassandra and he instantly sighted the airborne bottle, sailing in an arc and aimed directly at him. He knew of the shemlen fondness for grenades and, given the option between impending explosive injury or a distraction and a quick escape, he chose the latter. He twisted and fired faster than the Inquisition scouts could see, whipping around and loosing an arrow in one smooth, swift motion. His arrow caught the bottle but, to his obvious and apparent shock, he discovered that the glass was paper thin. It gave under his arrow like blades of grass beneath heavy boots, folded under the force instead of being redirected; it was not a grenade. The fluid inside hit the air with a sizzle and, as it scattered toward the ground, froze and burst outward in a cacophony of sharp, icy pops. The hunter was at a loss and, as he tried to back up from the encroaching cloud of bursting ice, a fist appeared out of thin air and caught him hard across the jaw. He lost his footing under the sudden blow and hit the ground hard. Before he could react, a plate covered boot pressed down on his chest and a razor sharp sword appeared against his cheek.

Cassandra's expression had not changed since he looked away. Now, as she turned that expression and her dark stare down at him, he knew that leveling an arrow at her had been a grave mistake.

"Do not get up." The command was simple and firm, it brooked no room for argument. 

At once, his bow was wrenched from his hands and two of the Inquisition archers advanced, keeping him close in their sights. Behind the Seeker, Sera clutched her wrist and shook out her fingers, swearing in vivid, winded bursts as she flexed the bruised digits. Behind her, on the rise to the east, just above the tents, Dorian sagged heavily against the stone architecture, sucking great, desperate breaths like a man drowning. Both the rogue and the mage were red-faced and soaked in sweat, blood, and mud. Their faces and necks were red and mottled, clear signs of their recent and excessive exertion, but why either of them would push themselves so far past their limits was beyond Cassandra. 

"What happened to you two?" Cassandra asked, confused and slightly aghast at their appearances. Her eyes searched the treeline behind Dorian but they appeared to be alone. That did not bode well. "Where is the Inquisitor? Where is Solas?"

Sera, apparently, had used up what little breath she had on swearing. After indulging her hand for a few moments, the elf set her hands on her hips and folded forward, chest heaving as she calmed. She started to answer Cassandra but, after three failed attempts to form words, simply braced her hands on her knees and shook her head. Dorian, who had spent the duration of Sera's counter-attack catching his own breath, found his voice as Cassandra turned her attention to him. The mage moved between the tents on his approach, his staff serving as a walking stick, and swallowed as he answered the Seeker's questions.

"Bears," Dorian said and took a deep, calming breath. "First, there were bears--then, giants--and wolf-monster-demon- _thing_ ," Dorian explained and waved his hand about in an effort to illustrate something or another. Cassandra saw no meaning or value to the motion and summarily ignored it. Before she could press him to tell her about the Inquisitor or Solas, the Dalish elf beneath her boot spoke up.

"Don't bandy insults at the wolf while I'm here, _shem_ ," the hunter all but seethed as he glowered at Dorian through Cassandra's legs. "I'll not be goin' with _Fen'Harel_ today, nor when he comes for you and your fool tongue."

Cassandra stared down at the hunter; her sword hovered a bare millimeter from the dark markings across the elf's face. She'd heard a sound earlier, some twisted sound that carried unease with it, but it was distant and faint. After that sound, however, the forest had turned into an echo chamber and no sound but barking and the cry of wolves had penetrated the trees for over an hour. After the din had faded, nearly all the sounds of the forest ceased. Were it not for the occasional and distant crack of wood, the echo as a branch fell, or the stirring of leaves, the forest would have been silent as a tomb. Blackwall had set out to speak to Fairbanks, find out what had happened, but he had yet to return from his short trip.

This hunter either had insight or found his gods embedded in coincidence. Determining which was not a priority, unless it implicated the Dalish in the Inquisitor’s current situation.

"Fuck--off--," Sera wheezed and Cassandra caught the tail-end of her rude gesture out of the corner of her eye. The rogue drew herself back up, heaved a loud sigh with a note of finality, and groaned as she walked the few paces to put herself at the Seeker's side. "Weren't no wolf I saw, was a bloody huge demon."

" _Dirthara-ma_ \--be silent, flat ear," the elf hissed and his eyes darted past Sera, staring wide and vigilant at the treeline. "His breath is on your neck already."

"Explain," Cassandra commanded, forcing the elf to look back to her. "Do you know the creature they speak of? The howl and the barking of the black wolves, is it responsible?"

"Creators, you lot will be eaten alive before another day's end," he said in a voice that was little more than an angry exhale. The silent note of prayer in his words did not go unnoticed and the edge of Cassandra's blade lighted on his cheek. The skin parted with the slightest pressure and the elf hissed as he felt a fine line of blood gather on his face. He turned his glower on Cassandra but, it seemed, he was far less willing to swear at her than the others. "Aye, a fair guess for a shem. Tis none other than Fen'Harel, himself, stalking these woods. The Dread Wolf has come, in the flesh, and if ya’ do not free me to my mission, he'll not be appeased before he's taken every last one of us."

"Pfff, shows what you know, elfy," Sera jeered at Cassandra's side. "'At thing _I saw_ \--it didn't look nothin' like them stupid idols you lot prop up everywhere. Weren’t just a big wolf, yeah, it was a _demon_."

"Sculpt exact replicas of your Maker, do you _seth'lin_? I'm sure the Dread Wolf would love to see them. P'raps ya should take him a few for show."

"Enough." Cassandra had no interest in listening to two elves squabble over the name of the creature in the woods. Her priority, at the moment, was learning the whereabouts of the Inquisitor and Solas. The first step in accomplishing that was a proper account of how they were separated. "Sera, Dorian, one of you explain what happened."

"Big fuckin' bears, yeah?" Sera answered and gestured to the gaping hole in the front of her jerkin and, subsequently, the fresh claw scars across her stomach. Cassandra looked her over in a dispassionate way; it was not that she was unsympathetic, but the moment called for clear heads and resolve. Sympathy and concern could come later, when she wasn’t holding a man at swordpoint. "We get the first one, dead as doornails, and have to scram before the other starts chewing on one of us, then-- _BAM_!" She abruptly snapped one fist into an open palm for emphasis. "We back right into a fuckin' giant like we got our heads up our asses. Me an' Solas get clubbed straight into the scenery for our troubles, then we whip around and there’s that other Maker damned bear. So we got a bear behind us and a giant asshole right up front."

"The Inquisitor focused her attention on the giant," Dorian interrupted, sounding mostly recovered and more than a touch worried. Cassandra was grateful for the Tevinter’s interjection; the fact that he enunciated made him far easier to understand and provided time to decode the gibberish Sera was wont to lace her anecdotes with. "Sera was struck down in combat, slashed across the stomach rather dramatically, and the Inquisitor ordered a hasty retreat. I frightened the bear off and followed her command but, once Sera and I arrived at a safe distance, we realized they had not followed." 

Cassandra considered the situation quickly and silently, putting together the events as she knew them. Combat was hectic, but the Inquisitor never allowed the party to separate as they were describing, not if she could prevent it. Evelyn wasn't the most skilled warrior in Thedas, but she was nowhere near inept. With Solas's assistance she should have been able to cripple a giant and escape. That she hadn't followed Dorian and Sera meant that one of two things had happened. She'd been waylaid when Solas was struck down, or they had both been struck down. It seemed like a leap, assuming Solas had fallen, but Cassandra had come to know the mage fairly well. Solas would not allow the Inquisitor to fall while he drew breath. 

It was a considerable feat, slaying a giant in single combat, but Cassandra had difficulty imagining the Inquisitor being defeated so easily. She was clever, despite her youth, and her sword rarely faltered. There was some other factor, here, something that influenced their escape, and Cassandra hoped that the Dalish were not directly involved. She had no urge to slay an elf in cold blood.

"And the creature?" Cassandra asked evenly, her expression already tight and serious.

"Saw 'at thing as we realized her gracious ladybits wasn't following. Was up on the ridge by the graves--yanno, the actual ones, with people in 'em." Sera sucked a quick, deep breath, and was fully prepared to launch into excruciating detail describing it, or the sounds it made, but her report was interrupted by the hunter.

" _Fenedhis, he was that close?_ "

Cassandra would have ignored him, but he was neither praying for them nor cursing them with vigor. Indeed, all the bite in his tone had drained out of him and the elf sounded nearly dazed with the lack of it. His markings were stark and bright against his skin, they grew brighter as he paled and his wide eyes settled, unfocused, on the space between Cassandra and Sera. He didn't bother to hide the open terror that took his expression, nor the panic that chased behind it. When his eyes snapped to Cassandra, they were pleading and urgent.

"Let me up, I must retrieve Keeper Hawen," he all but begged and, heedless of the sword hovering by his face, his hands moved to scramble against her boot on his chest. Cassandra was not easily moved and his fingers found no sufficient purchase on her armor. " _Please_ , if she speaks true, he's on the edge of the firelight. He'll find the others. He’ll tear _Din'an Hanin_ down around their ears and take them."

"Wait, are you--" The voice that cut into the conversation was familiar and unexpected. Cassandra's attention snapped up immediately and Scout Harding faltered momentarily under her gaze. "Apologies, uh, Lady Seeker I just, uh--Are you one of the elves from the party in the Bastion?" 

"You've seen the others?" The elf turned his wide stare at her, his whole expression desperate for confirmation that his brethren were still alive. Scout Harding shook her head, almost imperceptibly, before she spoke again. The look of loss and longing that crossed his face was all consuming.

"Not since we first scouted, but I know where they are," Scout Harding assured him and Cassandra's jaw flexed. The Seeker was not unreasonable, but if there was a point to this interruption, she could not see it. Her expression must have communicated as much because the dwarf spoke more quickly as she continued. "Were you up there, near...uh-- _Din'an Hanin_ \--when that howl happened?"

"Aye, I was returning from the hunt, avoiding the other shem and their abominations," the elf answered readily, as though his answers would result in spontaneous good news. Scout Harding's expression pinched and she glanced, very briefly off to the east, at the high cliffs that stretched above the trees.

"How did you get here so quickly?"

The line of questioning was a clever one and, all at once, Cassandra's opinion of the dwarven scout improved. If his party was camped near the spot where the creature had been, near where the Inquisitor was last seen, and he had been nearby, why was he not as winded and exhausted as Sera and Dorian? How had he beaten them here by so clear a margin? There was a direct route to his camp from here. A route that would get them there quickly, to the scene of the battle, could prove invaluable. Unfortunately, despite the potential hidden in his last answer, it had instantly raised more imperative questions than any regarding mountain paths.

"Describe the "other shem" and their abominations," Cassandra demanded and leaned forward slightly, pressing more weight on the elf and reminding him of her presence and the imminent danger she posed. His eyes tracked back and forth, between Scout Harding and the Seeker and, with a willingness that belied how desperately he wished to escape their custody and the Emerald Graves altogether, he provided very detailed descriptions of the Red Templars in the Graves and of all their activities as he’d seen them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick glossary of Elven that is not place or character names:
> 
> _Dirthara-ma_ \- May you learn. (a curse)  
>  _Seth'lin_ \- Thin blood.  
>  _Fenedhis_ \- A popular Elven expletive.


	8. The Packmaster

It was so easy to fall into sleep. The fumes of the elfroot and the still, stuffy, earthen air of the cave clouded her mind. The dim light that poured through the cave’s mouth was welcoming, calm, and it beckoned to her in an insidious, drowsy way. Each time she drifted off, she woke feeling more exhausted, stiffer, and increasingly overheated. Evelyn had lost all sense of time; between the overcast sky and the way she listed in and out of consciousness, it was impossible to tell when or where she was.

She had to get up.

Even mired in a fevered daze, she knew this wasn't alright. This was dangerous. Her health would not improve with time or sleep. She had to get up, had to deal with her injuries, had to find water. Her head swam at the very thought of rising, but she let out a slow, focused breath and drew another, considerably deeper one. She hadn't intended the breathing to do more than calm her thoughts, maybe steel her resolve, but that one breath managed to clear her mind entirely. As she slowly filled her lungs, her ribs creaked and brilliant, glittering pain danced across her chest. She convulsed forward, muscles drawn in on reflex, and the swelling wound at her side burned ferociously. 

In all her battles with mages she'd been set aflame semi-regularly. Never had actual fire burned her more painfully than that wound did, now.

Her throat was too dry to scream, which was something of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, the painful cracking as she swallowed made her eyes water. Her tongue was thick in her mouth and the taste of old blood was truly hideous. On the other hand, she had no idea where the great wolf was...if it even was a wolf.

Oddly enough, though it could have been anything from a demon to a monstrous creature from the depths of the Graves, she didn't fear it. If it wanted her dead, it had already had ample opportunity to kill her. She wasn't sure what it was or why it had squirreled her away into this cave, but it clearly wished her to remain...well, _mostly_ alive. She didn't fear it, but Evelyn knew the Emerald Graves were dangerous. Without that wolf nearby there was no telling what a sickly scream might draw to the cave, and she was barely stable enough to stand. She would put up less fight than wet parchment if something actually _attacked_ her.

The pain in her ribs and across her side was violent and jarring, but also invigorating in the sick, sudden way that only pain could ever manage to be. The vigor that followed sharp, startling pain surged through her limbs, gave them a strength heedless of illness or thirst, and Evelyn was able to pull herself up off the ground. Her hands scrambled against the rock and her elfroot bedding until she was seated. She locked her arms and twisted, even as tremors started up her limbs, and propped her back against the wall of the cave. It took a moment for her vision to right itself, to accept this new orientation, and she pressed a heavy, gauntleted hand into the wound at her side. 

The pain of metal on tender flesh was livid and blinding, but it was enough to keep her awake. She needed the help; her movements, mild though they were, had crushed the delicate pile of elfroot beneath her. What oil and scent remained in the herbs was expelled and the fumes in the cave were, all at once, renewed. The smell was numbing and cooling at once. It wasn't unpleasant, but she couldn't sleep now. Evelyn steeled herself and struggled to take as few, limited, shallow breaths as she was able to stand, until the smell settled.

Her eyes were heavy, the lids felt thick and numb as they drooped, unevenly, across her field of vision. The sinking sensation of sleep, of darkness, made her panic and her hand tensed against her side again. Fingers dug into her waist and her breath stuttered in her throat as the sleep was chased out. 

She was awake. She could stay awake. She had to stay awake. 

Before her thoughts clouded again, she mentally tore through the things she needed to do. The list was jittery and incomplete, but it was the best she could do. The smallest actions, the most essential, the easiest, everything she could and should do was reduced down to the barest minimum of itself, the simplest incarnation possible. Thinking like this was familiar, it helped her focus, helped her keep her energy up. This was not all that different from how she behaved in the heat of combat, this was merely quieter. 

Her armor was heavy; she needed to take it off if she planned on moving.

Her wound was deep; she needed to bandage it. 

No, she needed to clean it, pack it, bandage it--had to be in that order. If she didn't do it like that...wait, what did she need? It was...mixture...something--

Evelyn's fingers twisted and gripped the flesh at her side hard, lifting the song of pain through her veins again. That she could do this, abuse this wound and not pass out, that the injury hadn't killed her already, meant the wound wasn't as deep as she'd thought. It was macabre, but she didn't feel anything soft and senseless between her fingers. All her innards remained _inside_ her, if nothing else. The lyrium creature had sliced her side open, had parted flesh, but he hadn't broken through her muscle. She was still alive. Had it cut any large veins? The elfroot would have....If she could--if she could…

She panicked and abandoned the thought as she clenched her hand again. Her fingers fumbled and slipped over her wound. The hard edges of her armor dug into the red, swollen lip of the injury rather than compressing it, and the new variety of agony that skittered over her senses was both all-consuming and terribly effective. She gaped blindly and doubled over, but she was awake. Hurriedly, before the sensation cleared away, she tore off her gauntlets. With her fingers uncovered, she made easy work of her pauldrons and the plate on her arms.

It didn't escape her, even as her vision listed and shook, that her fingertips were a darker color than they ought to have been. They fumbled as she went for her thighs and the latches on her greaves. The farther forward she leaned, the more her chest and side were bent and stretched. Injuries that had rested for too long, flesh and bone that had been left to settle, that had calmed in the numbing miasma of the elfroot, regained feeling all at once. Evelyn had been injured before, but never like this, never so seriously and with so much time sliding by without the simplest treatment. Between the torturous symphony of pain that danced across her and the rising urgency that clawed at the back of her mind, she was utterly, unfailingly conscious. 

Her legs didn't fight her, not as much as she expected, and she ignored their stiffness as she drew her calves toward her. She used her weak grip on her ankles to bend her knees and struggled to pull off the armor across her boots. She sat up as she cast the armor aside; it fell to the ground soundlessly, cushioned by the loamy earth inside the cave. Her head was no longer spinning, but nausea climbed up through her chest, searing between her lungs as it rose. Her throat was too tight to let anything up; she had nothing to vomit anyway. The pain of it, burning and trapped in her chest, was both sudden and goring. She welcomed it as she stared at her boots and the long rows of laces. There was no way her fingers would be able to undo them, they had already lost feeling. 

No, she needed them.

Her boots seemed too heavy for her to move, but she was not Solas.

The name rang out across her thoughts like a Chantry bell at dawn. It repeated and rebounded, a useless thought laced with dread and determination, and it took Evelyn a long while to focus around it. Her immediate concerns receded, drowned out in the din that thought caused. His name clamoured for her attention and Evelyn peered out of the mouth of the cave. 

Dreams and waking had blurred in her memory, skewed and muddied just like the passage of time, but she knew there was something important. _Solas was alive._ She sucked in a sharp, reflexive breath and ground her teeth as her ribs creaked. At once, the two imperatives came to a head--she had to find Solas; she had to find water. For a moment, deciding between them was like choosing between limbs, but reason trickled back into her thoughts as they danced back and forth.

She couldn't help Solas if she was dead.

There was something odd about that. It was strange how having a goal, committing to something specific, made this sort of struggle so much simpler. It had always been that way for Evelyn, especially when the goal was someone else's well being. Years ago, her brother had warned about this sort of thinking. He'd told her that she was killing parts of herself to keep others alive, that she should be more careful, more hesitant in her devotion. She'd never understood that sentiment. She put others first on reflex because she could see what they needed, could help, could change things, could protect them; it was harder to look at herself and identify what was needed. It took infinitely more time to find even the vaguest solutions for her own problems, and they never went quite right when she did. 

Selfishness was hard for her, harder by far than selflessness. When she moved her arms to brace against the cave wall, when she strained on a fractured limb and numb fingers, and pulled her legs under her, selflessness was easy. If she were selfish, she'd have collapsed, she'd have cried, she'd have quietly nursed wounds and died in her sleep. When she forced herself away from the wall and dragged stiff limbs into line, when she swayed and stumbled to the mouth of the cave with all the focus of battle, it was because she had to help someone dear. It was because they were important, far more important than what ailed her.

Evelyn's pain could be measured and, after a point, she just dismissed it. Her pain was tangible, real, and limited. Solas was different. His pain could not be measured, his current hardships were a gaping void of dreadful possibilities, and that awful, looming potential eclipsed her own pains with ease. She braced an aching, clumsy arm against the mouth of the cave and blinked into the dreary light. She didn't know where she stood, what part of the Graves this was, but it didn't matter. She would find out soon enough. That problem could be overcome; she had to. Unfortunately, as her eyes adjusted to the brightness, as the rolling hills and scattered architecture of the Emerald Graves came into focus, another obstacle appeared before her. 

Wolves.

Shock cleared her mind of all thought as she stared.

_Wolves_.

She'd never been expressly afraid of wolves; it was one of the privileges of being raised in a noble house. She had never needed to chase wolves from crops or livestock, had never encountered them suddenly while hunting, and hadn't needed to fear them since she'd began wearing that necklace. In fact, truth be told, she rather liked them. They bounded up to her in the wild, curious and playful, like long lost friends welcoming her. They weren't like Mabari, they weren't hounds or pets, but they weren't fearful things...at least, they _hadn't been._

Now, as she stared across the rolling green hills of the Emerald Graves, Evelyn felt her stomach sink. 

There were hundreds of black wolves gathered, their shapes littered the landscape, as far as she could see, and no shortage of bones and carcasses lie scattered among them. Evelyn had never seen so many of any one creature in one place...she'd never seen so many of any one creature, at all, let alone _wolves_ , and all of their emerald eyes locked on her at once. They stared at her, all of them frozen in place with their ears up and aimed at her. There were too many to get a sense of emotion, it was too overwhelming to try and glean anything from an atmosphere this surreal, and Evelyn stared back at them, stock-still and wide-eyed. 

Suddenly, she was painfully aware that she'd lost her token when the great wolf had rent her armor from her chest.

Very, very gradually, Evelyn's eyes swept from the farthest left to the farthest right she could see. She didn't dare turn her head, not yet. There were too many to count, even if they weren't moving, and no other creatures seemed to linger between the trees. The forest was deathly silent and absolutely still; her pulse hammered so loudly that she had no doubt the wolves could hear it. They could sense fear, couldn't they? They were like enough to dogs, or dogs to them, that the ability had to be shared. She pushed down her panic and took a slow, measured breath. Bristling pain shot through her side and ground against her lungs, reminded her of her injuries, and Evelyn, very slightly, flexed forward as pain glanced over her face. The motion was small but it was enough to garner a reaction from the pack. To her horror, every wolf she could see scrambled upright. 

In less than a heartbeat all of them were standing. 

They were still staring at her, dark and silent.

Each one of the wolves came up to her ribs; there was no way that she outweighed any single one of them. Even healthy and fully armored, with her best friends and fighters at her back, she'd have balked to face such a force. Unarmed and without defenses, injured and frail, she had no doubt they'd shred her as easily as a stunned nug. 

They were alert, standing, and their attention locked on her...but they didn't advance. There was no reason for them to refrain, was there? 

Why were they waiting?

The great wolf hadn't attacked her, despite the lack of her token. There was no way it was more than a cousin to these creatures, if any relation at all, but perhaps her token wasn't necessary. Sera could smell it, even if Evelyn couldn't; was the lingering scent so strong that she didn't need the actual necklace? Was she willing to put her faith--gamble her life on that possibility? 

She stood on the edge of a precipice. 

To back down, to return to the cave, meant death. Whether the creatures dove on her at the first indication of her retreat, or she simply withered away and succumbed to exposure, she would die. If she died, Solas would die. No. That was unacceptable and, whatever the risk of going forward, it was only a risk. She would take a risk over certain death any day.

Evelyn clenched her jaw and lowered her arm from the mouth of the cave. The wolves followed the movement of her arm as a unit, all their heads watched her hand descend to her side and then snapped back up to her face. Her heartbeat fluttered, light and jittery, as she took the first step forward, but she drew herself up. She was nobility, she'd been raised in a noble house; she knew how to stand tall and strong, even if she was neither at the moment. One step became two, three, and she kept up her facade as single steps became a slow, weary march. The wolves watched her and, as she approached their lines and anticipation settled in her stomach, they did something she didn't expect. 

They backed away from her.

With each gradual, slogging step, the multitudes of wolves moved back. They weren't cowed, there was no fear in them, but they granted her an envelope of space and then closed their ranks behind her, all the while watching her with keen, absolute interest. She made it ten yards before she stood beside the nearest tree. The distance felt like miles and, as she braced her hand on the bark and tried to appear disaffected, she was panting and struggling for air. Her noble demeanor suffered for her wheezing, but she struggled to keep it up, even as she wrapped an arm across her stomach and tried to settle the burning in her side. 

Sucking air through her nose was insufficient but her mouth felt sealed, glued shut and dried like leather. Her breathing stuttered as she tried to swallow, the air caught in her throat as it sealed tight, and her hand scrabbled against the bark as she choked. She bent forward at the hip and, while her attention was diverted, she didn't notice one of the wolves break the circle around her.

It moved alongside her silently and, with a sound that was more inquisitive than anything else, it prodded her side with its nose. The sudden burst of pain startled her and Evelyn jumped slightly. The reaction threw her off balance and she stumbled into the tree. Her fingers clawed desperately for a hold as she slipped toward the ground. They caught on a knot in the trunk and, as she caught herself, a sound forced its way up through her throat. It wasn't a whine, and it wasn't a scream; it was too soft to count as a cry, but there was no other term that came close to the strangled sound that pealed out of her dried throat and parted her lips. It was a sound of pure pain and the simple act of making it hurt more than it could have expressed; her throat was raw by start of it and she coughed violently as it tried to close up again. 

All around her, in instant response to her sound, a chorus of growling picked up. 

The wolves sounded angry, even fearful, and each rumbled sound and quiet snarl carried the painful promise of sharp teeth and spilled blood. Evelyn pried her eyes open and twisted, despite the pain in her side, to look at the wolves, to prepare for their attack. Ears back and teeth bared, hundreds of them barked and snapped, ready to descend...but they weren't staring at her. It took her a moment, as she coughed and her vision spotted, but she realized that she wasn't target of their ire. They were staring at wolf by her side. It had backed against the tree, tail hidden and back bent in to the ground in supplication and fear, and Evelyn stared down at it in confusion. She had no idea what was going on, why the others had turned on this one wolf, and she was given no time to put the pieces of the puzzle together. 

A heavy, unearthly bark resounded through the trees and the massive pack of wolves stood at alert again, their attention suddenly shifted and fixed on the distance behind her. The wolf at her side trembled and Evelyn felt something tighten in her chest at the sight of its terror. She forced herself to swallow, tried to clear her throat, again and again, but the effects of her efforts were minimal. She needed water...if she lived long enough to find it. Scattered barking and yipping sounded off in the distance, loud and sudden, bursting through the trees in patches. Whatever caused the commotion drew closer and, all at once, the wolves around her retreated to a much more considerable distance. The wolf at her side, after a moment of hesitation, tried to move from the tree and bolt for the safety of the pack but it was denied. The curious attention of the ranks reverted to harsh snarling in a flash and the abandoned wolf stood, fearful and alone in the space between Evelyn and the others.

The hideous growl that crept around the tree climbed up her spine and curled at the base of her skull. The sound was deep and enormous, consuming and terrible; it shook her to her core and the cowed wolf all but dropped to the ground in suubmission. When the dark shape of the great wolf rounded the ancient tree, it took Evelyn a moment to recognize it. She'd never seen it angry and, at the moment, it was beyond livid. 

It had more teeth than could possibly fit in any creature's maw, all of them huge and razor sharp. Its jaws, opened fully, would be wider than she was tall. The snarl that ripped from its chest was nothing short of distilled dread itself. It was a creature of nightmares, like this, and a breath of fresh panic cleared Evelyn's muddied, sticky thoughts. She still lacked most of the answers, but her confusion burned away as that sound all but scorched her limbs. For whatever reason, the same reason that caused the others to turn on it, the great wolf was going to attack the one that had approached her.

Truthfully, Evelyn had no investment in these wolves. 

The very presence of so many black wolves was something that she'd have worried about, at length, if her faculties were in order. But, addled and reduced to simple thoughts, she had to rely on her conscience alone. This situation seemed _wrong_. For all she knew, that wolf could have been testing her, trying to make her fall so it could descend and devour her, but the way it cowered, alone and exposed while the great wolf advanced toward it was too pitiful to ignore. 

Evelyn shoved away from the tree, tried to use the momentum from her push and stand, but she couldn't quite manage it. Her noble stature was shot, lost to her fit of coughing and her worry, and she only made it a scant few steps before she fell to her knees. It was less distance than she'd have liked, and taken with less grace, but she managed to put herself between the great wolf and the smaller one. They ignored her, mostly, and she braced her arms against the ground as she sucked in an agonizingly deep breath. Colors danced behind her eyes.

"Stop."

The order was little more than a croak, but the forest fell silent with speed. The snarling ceased, instantly, and when she dragged her gaze up and off the ground, she found the great wolf, teeth still bared, staring at her. She had no idea if it could understand her, if any of them could, but it didn't matter. She couldn't defend the smaller creature with a sword or with her fists; the least she could do for it was use her words.

"Please," Evelyn added and, as the word climbed its way up, her throat closed and she pitched forward, coughing and sputtering. 

She doubled over, curled up on instinct as she struggled to breathe. Her head rested against the dirt and grass, her eyes screwed shut, and she clutched at her ribs to hold them steady, but the shuddering pain was overwhelming. Whatever happened to the wolf, whatever decision was made, she didn't witness it. She didn't smell blood, didn't hear the cries of a dying creature, but she wasn't sure if the absolute silence was better. Once her coughing calmed, Evelyn opened her eyes and found the world darker than before. She drew herself up, slowly, stiffly, and was immediately face to face with the great wolf. Six red eyes stared her down from scant inches, its shadow eclipsed the watery light of the overcast sun. 

There was no blood on its muzzle or breath.

It had listened.

Evelyn smiled, then, and thoughtlessly extended a hand. She placed it on the creature's snout and stroked it in an absent, weak way. Her _'thank you'_ had no sound behind it, it was no more than a movement of lips, but the wolf didn't attack her or step away. She had no idea how six red eyes could seem so...concerned, but they did. She knew, then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this creature didn't want to hurt her. Her smile widened with relief and she leaned forward to press her forehead against its fur, just below her hand. It didn't move.


End file.
